


Sanguinaccio

by Robin_Knight



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Blood Drinking, Canon Compliant, Depression, Dubious Consent, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 17:04:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8110462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Knight/pseuds/Robin_Knight
Summary: Louis - driven by despair - attempts what was once unthinkable. The memories of his maker rise to the surface, as he thinks about the motivating force behind his actions.





	

It was cold.

The blade of the knife was surprisingly cold; Louis felt it inside of him with remarkable presence, as if it were a part of his body, and its presence initially provided no pain in the slightest. It was a heavy sensation. It was the sensation was being constricted, unable to breathe out or find strength, and it suffocated him to an uncomfortable extent, enough to force his hands to grip around the handle and pull with force. He yanked it from his chest.

There was an abrupt pain. It started small, like a scratch or a small cut, before it radiated out into something far beyond his worst nightmares. The white-hot sensation went deep through muscle and past bone, deep into veins and organs, while the breathlessness only compounded an encroaching sense of terror that threatened to overwhelm him. He could focus on nothing else; the rest of his body felt numb, as it tingled and throbbed with a needle-like sensation upon the skin, and soon the blood loss became real. It followed fast to the pain.

Louis dropped the knife upon the stone.

It clattered on the top step and fell onto the second; blood spurted from the open wound, as it gushed between his fingers and dripped onto the large staircase into the gardens, and soon it dripped down onto the knife in a manner that almost amused him. These steps reminded him of so much lost, so much hope and so much despair, and he struggled to keep his hand upon the wound, even as his need for death felt stronger than ever. Even now, after so long in such a form, it felt unnatural and uncomfortable to lose so much blood . . . it weakened him . . .

The night no longer felt a comfort. There was a breeze from the nearby trees, something that blew from afar, and it chilled him to his very core, particularly as his blood left him and he heard the beating of his heart slow to a crawl. He felt dizzy; the stars above flickered in and out of view, until he realised his vision grew dark, and the shadows only grew ever darker, until he felt smothered in darkness. The slaves were asleep. Lestat hunted afar.

Louis smiled to himself. He fell to his knees . . . there was a pain in his joints, which surprised him as the gaping wound stole so much attention . . . he wondered whether Paul felt this way in his death. He hoped there were no pain, that his death was instant, but his skull was caved in and his head deformed . . . it could be no worse than this, but this was what he deserved. Louis slid onto the stone patio; blood spread out and seeped through his clothing, where it warmed his skin and brought some small comfort, and he thought back.

Those visions were so real to Paul . . . in his egotism he dismissed them, unable to comprehend such a miracle in his midst, but now he saw images in his mind . . . the blood began to spurt less, cooled around him, and the scent was like iron in the air. It sickened and soothed him, as he heard footsteps ever closer. Lestat in his vision. Lestat like an angel.

“What have you done, Louis?”

Those grey eyes were piercingly beautiful . . . Louis looked up, as the world around him flittered in and out of sight . . . Paul had looked up, too, before the pull had brought him forward . . . so easy to believe foul influence, too easy to believe cruel action . . .

“I leave you alone for _one_ minute and you-!”

“You should have stayed gone . . .”

* * *

 _‘Nicky would have adored such music_.’

_The music did indeed sound beautiful. It was a haunting melody that combined the legato with the staccato, creating a strange concoction of sounds that came together in something memorable, and Louis was reminded of the highs and lows that were depression, so that he felt a personal connection to the tunes. The musicians from within the grand townhouse played with passion and soul, so that Louis could have listened for hours._

_It was a cold night; Lestat was dressed according to fashion, as opposed to practicality, and the blue of his waistcoat complemented the hue of his eyes, while the matching ribbon tied back those blonde locks out of his face and allowed his features to be seen. He held a cane in one gloved hand, while those large lips were pulled into a strange smile, almost serene and generous, as they stood upon the cobbled road and listened on to that private party. Louis pulled his coat around him, while the horses-and-carts rattled on past them._

_‘You have never mentioned that name before,’ said Louis._

_Lestat gave a distracted hum, as he looked away from the room lit bright with oil-lamps and candles, before he waved a hand in an offhand manner and walked forward. The men around kept some distance from him, likely intimidated by his unnatural height for their time, and he noticed how Lestat chanced one last glance to the gates of the home, as if he debated whether to gatecrash for the sake of gate-crashing the party. Louis wondered if he missed the human intimacy of family and friends, simply relishing in the immediacy of the here and now._

_‘It is nothing,’ replied Lestat._

_‘Surely, it must be something? It mattered enough for you to speak of it.’_

_‘I said it is nothing!’ Lestat slammed the cane impossibly hard upon the cobblestones. ‘I do not understand why you insist on dredging up things of the past? Let the dead stay dead! If you are so in love with ghosts, why not join them and let me live in peace?’_

_The older man picked up his pace. It was a struggle to keep up with him, as he moved with preternatural speed and Louis felt too exhausted for such movements, and he soon fell a few steps behind like an obedient slave or servant ought, much to his embarrassment. There were looks from behind him, from men and women that saw Lestat’s chastisement of him, and it sparked further resentment in his breast, as he knew how much Lestat depended on him for both financial support and general security. He felt sorry for the blind man in his bed._

_It was difficult to still his beating heart; the rage could not be subdued, but he was fully aware that there was too much to learn from Lestat, so he could not risk pushing him away into the arms of another. Co-dependency. Louis never expected his life to come to this, tied to another in the depths of spiritual hell, while all the time being told to ‘embrace’ his new life and his new seeming inferiority to another that was once his inferior._

_‘You never talk of your past,’ continued Louis._

_There was a scoff from Lestat, as he made a childish sound. They took a corner and walked toward a small café, one that often stayed open late and allowed for them to sit much like the mortals around them, and the scents of human food often brought a feeling of nostalgia from Louis that he never before imagined could be possible. The scent of fresh bread was already in the air, despite being a good length of street from the establishment._

_Lestat clenched at his cane in a telling manner. The anger was apparent in his every action, from the flush to his almost fluorescent white skin, to the tensing of his muscles in that otherwise lithe frame. He stopped before the open windows of the café; inside there could be seen various couples by the candlelight, each one lost in a world of their making, and so oblivious to the devils outside that could snuff out their lights in but an instant. Louis would have once feared such displays of anger, but now there was only apathy._

_‘You will cease this talk, if you know what is good for you.’_

_‘Oh? What will you do should I continue?’_

_‘Listen, Louis,’ snapped Lestat, ‘I made you and I can destroy you! You have no idea about all the ways that our kind can die or suffer! Hell, you don’t even know the real meaning of suffering, so sheltered and spoiled by these climes. You longed for death, I gave it to you. You wanted for your pain to end, I ended it. What more do you want?’_

_Louis listened to the chatter within the café. It was as inane and meaningless as anything spieled by the older man, only there was life and passion from those mortals, and he would rather be lost in the splendour of life than the trappings of death. He stared aimlessly at spot by the bar, where the lamplight struck the polished surface with a sparkle of white, and he wondered how such simple things could be so aesthetically pleasing, even as he felt Lestat grow restless and impatient beside him. Time seemed to stop._

_‘I cannot take another night of your countenance in sight,’ said Lestat._

_The blond man stormed through those small doors; there was a tinkle of a bell from the doorframe, while the scent of hot drinks and foods came heavy upon him, and it was almost enough to remind him of past reflexes, so that his mouth could have watered out of old instinct alone. He stood without company, as he simply watched Lestat find a table and throw himself into a wooden chair. The sense of rage was almost palpable._

_Louis followed with obedience and indifference._

_* * *_

_The bed was most comfortable._

_The sheets beneath them were cool and soft to the touch; they clung to Louis, with the thin sheen of sweat from their exertions, and the lower half was deeply entangled within his long legs and prevented much movement. It was a warm night, made ever warmer from the act itself and the southern humidity. A draught from the balcony doors drifted over them, providing a small relief and keeping them awake as the stars shone._

_‘This is why we ought to share a room,’ whispered Lestat._

_Louis said nothing. He thought to the oratory, where he longed to rest and sleep and avoid all other forms of human interaction, and to be so close to someone felt almost a chore when they provided only superficial pleasure. There was a finger upon his forearm; it traced slow and lazy patterns upon his skin, in a manner that would have almost been seductive from another, but Lestat was like no other lover, so instead it felt possessive, like an instinctive marking of one’s territory or how an animal would leave a scent._

_It felt good to have another body pressed against him, even one so distinctly masculine, and a part of him wondered why his mortal self was so aroused by the sight of another man, even one so beautiful as Lestat, and why his immortal self no longer held such preferences. He could feel the distinctly masculine chest upon his back, while a semi-erect length – still wet and warm – pressed against the backs of his thighs, and he gave a small sigh._

_‘I sometimes wish I were prince of our kind.’ Lestat placed a kiss to his shoulder. ‘I would make it law that every fledgling must share their blood with their maker, so that they could never disobey and must always share in such a pleasure. Ah, what a life it would be.’_

_The kisses continued along his neck. They began chaste, mere pecks of lips upon skin, but soon they lingered upon his pulse with little sucks and nips. He knew what Lestat wanted to finish the evening; it would be easy to deny him, but not so easy to deal with the almost violent outburst and days of sulking that would follow, making his home feel like a prison with the world’s most unfair warden. Louis simply arched his neck, while that hand upon his arm trailed lower to parts once hidden from sight by modesty and cloth._

_‘I know you want this as much as I,’ said Lestat._

_There came a quick stab of pain, as canine teeth – perfectly poised – pierced his skin and ripped into what lay beneath, and soon Louis felt that ever-strange sensation of losing blood, while his lover experienced the romance and eroticism that came from taking from another of their kind. It could have been made reciprocal so easily, but Louis couldn’t bear to ask to make such a bite, to taste such blood . . . he would rather be used than to use in turn . . ._

_‘L-Lestat,’ he said with a gasp._

_* * *_

_Lestat sat hunched over the books. They contained all the appropriate expenses for the plantation house, although it never ceased to fascinate Louis how the older man could be so enthralled with numbers and figures, but then – he assumed – it made sense when he likely came from a peasant life. If Lestat wanted to spend his time counting coins, it would not be Louis who questioned it and demanded him to change his behaviour. Every second spent occupied was a second not spent criticising Louis._

_There was some sound from within the house; it was a soft cry, like a wounded animal, followed by footsteps of someone barefooted upon wooden floorboards, and then a whimper of comfort and beautiful whispers of softly spoken lullabies. He assumed a slave tended to the old man, who would soon grow bored and require company, and already Louis’ mind jumped to the chessboard that would be meticulously set and awaited only its players._

_Lestat frowned, as the lantern by his side illuminated his features. The snarl on his lips pulled back to reveal large canine teeth, while his grey eyes looked almost violet in the light, and he was clearly on the verge of another attack of apoplexy. He flicked through the papers with an unnatural speed, eyes scanning each page with flickering movements, but he paused on certain words and phrases with a purse of his lips and a tap of his fingers, until he slammed down his fist upon the wooden table. Louis winced despite himself at the sound._

_‘I can’t make heads nor tails of this,’ snapped Lestat._

_The blond man stood with an abrupt gesture; the chair scraped along the floor with a hideously high-pitched sound, until it rattled to a stop behind him by some inches or so, and – with a large intake of breath – soon Lestat began to pace and shake his head with a great deal of emotion. He moved like a man possessed, so that brief memories of the priest penetrated Louis’ mind and made him somewhat dizzy with memories of the past, and he feared that something would soon be broken due to his maker’s frustrations._

_‘Are you positive these are up-to-date?’_

_‘I would assume so,’ said Louis. ‘I cannot think of any reason why they ought not to be current. If it angers you to go through the finances, you should go find something else to do. I am more than capable of taking care of our investments; I have been dealing with these matters since my father’s death, long before I had_ you _to supervise me.’_

 _‘Ah, is that a hint of sarcasm that I hear? Listen here, Louis: it is important that we always have enough for our living, else your mother and sister . . . my_ father _. . . will be the ones that suffer for it. You wouldn’t want that now, would you? No, I thought not.’_

_‘You threaten me? It is my will alone that you and your father are not on the street!’_

_‘The kitten has claws, hmm? You do amuse me, Louis.’_

_There were many sounds from outside. Louis heard the various animals, lost in the wildlife, until the sounds merged with that of his beating heart, and soon the cacophony was too much to bear and he felt the beginnings of a severe headache. He heard the breeze blow against the trees, until every leaf brushed against the next with a loud rustle, and soon he realised that Lestat had stopped pacing, so that he could lean against a nearby bureau. The blond man tapped a stray tune with his fingers against the surface, until Louis gave into the tension._

_‘Let me deal with the books, I shall fix things,’ said Louis._

_Lestat slapped the surface with an open palm, as his mouth opened with a wide smile and crinkled the corners of his eyes with small lines of amusement. He pushed himself away from the bureau and walked over the tiles toward Louis, before he slapped a hand upon his shoulder and gave an almost brotherly squeeze, and soon stepped through the French doors to the outside veranda, where he flexed his muscles and cricked his neck, then said:_

_‘Thank you, I see you have some uses.’_

_Louis said nothing._

* * *

“You would throw away such a gift?”

The walls of the coffin surrounded him. The velvet lining was a surprising comfort, but the scent of Lestat marked all sides and sickened him to his stomach, and – as he felt a small form of resentment for being lain inside such a personal space – he realised that Lestat intended to lie with him that night. It would be chaste, likely done out of practicality alone, but to be pressed against his body was enough to make him despair of his failure.

He felt the wound on his chest slowly close, but the sharp pain remained and was echoed with a dull throb from the general vicinity, and the blood at the corners of his lips tasted unlike any of the animals he hunted by night. It was a beautiful taste, borne from the wrist of his maker, but to be force-fed such a liquid likely ensured his survival. Louis gave a small laugh, but the movement caused an intense sensation of further pain. He grimaced, as one hand came to his chest, and looked up to see Lestat peering down upon him from above.

There was a strange expression upon his face; his fangs were bared with the anger of a snarl, but those grey eyes were soft and narrowed in seeming concern, and Louis – as he realised the sunlight was slowly beginning to seep into the night – laughed despite his pain. He laughed that this ‘gift’ could so easily be rejected, and he prayed that one day he would find strength to wait for the sun itself. He felt the heavy weight of exhaustion upon him.

“I did what I should have done so many years ago,” said Louis.

“No longer so squeamish about suicide, I see.”

“You thought you could have it all.” Louis gave a soft laugh. “The lands, the money, the slaves . . . they grow restless, they know what we are . . . even if you could have it all, you cannot have me or my pain. My pain is mine alone. It’s mine, Lestat.”

Lestat said nothing. Louis only heard a long exhale of breath, before he checked the bedroom doors to be sure they were locked, and – with long and slow strides – he came beside the coffin and swung his leg to rest one knee by Louis’ right hip. He soon sat astride the fledgling vampire; those eyes narrowed, while there was a flare to his nostrils, and his lips were pursed into a tight and colourless line. There was nothing more said. Louis felt Lestat lie upon him, as blonde curls brushed against his cheek, and soon the coffin lid was closed over them.

It was a strange intimacy; those old feelings of claustrophobia were long gone, replaced only with memories of discomfort and fear, and he struggled to find a purpose for his hands. They clenched and unclenched beside him, as he listened to every breath of Lestat, and the wound upon his chest – now with a strong pressure from another – ached and groaned with the considerable strain. The darkness was complete. Nothing more to be seen.

“You are an idiot, Louis,” whispered Lestat.

Louis could only laugh.

 


End file.
